Tap

Tap, she said, tap-tap-tap. Dance, she said, dance-dance-dance. And the fingers moved, and the tapping did sound, on the hardwood of the table she sat before. Tap they sounded, tap-tap-tap. And the repetition did her mind well. What else is there to say? What else is there to do, but to listen to the listless tap-tap-tap. Confused they were, as they watched with fear. Such emptiness they saw in her eyes unmoving. Only the tap-tap-tap they could hear, not the music her mind created. Crazy perhaps, they speculated. Upset and in a zone of her own? But, the fantasy that was her reality is the mysterious tap-tap-tap they will never know.

Nothing Like a Nightmare

Have you ever had a dream so painful, that even though you can only remember fragments of the horrible images, it haunts you when you wake? It’s not just what you’ve seen, it’s how you felt aswell. Then there’s the horribly sickening knowledge that your own mind created this dream. Like an unwilling self torture. I have an empty feeling in that place I know my soul should be, like something had snuck it away while I wasn’t looking. All I can think of is this stupid dream, even as hours have passed. I keep reliving the fear, the pain, the confusion…a strange fantasy world where doors don’t lead to the places they came from, passages long and narrow and never ending, and yet ending up where you began. It’s a place where shores wash up in a room full of hurt, confusion, and confinement. And then there is that person…that one person who has haunted your whole life, now showing themselves to still haunt your dreams long after you’ve convinced yourself you’ve forgotten.  What was once so beautiful, what once filled my heart with so much joy, was twisted into this ghastly blend of malice, cruelty, and gruesome sadistic pleasure. And all that’s left is pain, and the numbness you wake with when you realize this terrorist creature was not only your imagination, but once someone you loved. There’s nothing like a nightmare to shake your very soul.  

The Forest

Under the shadow of forest trees, and above the damp forest floor, there is a very distinct and earthy smell. To me, this smell is home. It’s the leaves, and the flowers, and the bark on the trees. It’s the mist from a creek, and the lone boulders of the woods, and the fairies that you cannot see, but you know are there. There is a feeling of being in the woods that is unlike any other. No matter how many people you are with, it has a way of making you feel that you are all alone in such a large world. It is safe and friendly with the sun high in the sky, but will whisper sweet murder in the humid kiss of the night. You may never see a creature there, but you will feel them all around you. You may never hear the plants speak, but it is you they gossip about. I say tread lightly, and love the forest, for as much of a friend to you it may be, it is also someone’s home.

Always There For Me

When I feel like no one can hear,
The curser will sit and listen,
Even when my words are that of nonsense and fear.

When I feel like screaming and crying,
The pen will accept my violence,
Even if it’s their life I’m sacrificing.

When my tears burn trails down my cheeks
The pencil will help erase the scars
Even if it shreds and breaks.

When I have no real escape,
My words will take me away,
Until my heart can mend its broken shape.

The Casita

When I was younger, I had a home of my own. It sat very near to my parent’s house, but you could not see it from their back porch. Just beyond the woods, by a small creek and a large dinosaur shaped boulder sat my Casita, my little house. The paint was badly chipping, it’s once sparkling white finish slowly fading with age. The steps that lead to my tiny porch were gradually rotting away, and though hidden as it was, the forest could not spare it the damages of every passing winter. Years I spent in that house, from the age of nine to almost thirteen. I was happy there. Innocent, unafraid, and independent. I painted pictures on the walls, sang into the creek and watched the leaves make bushy piles by my door. In the winter I could hide in my Casita forever, and the snow would never get me. In the summers it would shield me from the blaring heat. I planted a small garden, and watched it die right beside my little house. It was my little treasure. Sadly, as I grew it did not. As my imagination died, so did my friendship with the Casita. With every passing year the tiny roof would sink. The cinderblock foundation began to crumble, and the little steps up to my tiny porch continued to rot away. When I had to leave my casita for the last time, all I can remember is the stale smell of decaying dreams that had been burnt and broken with time, and with age. So many happy times leave me with sour memories of the person I used to be. My paradise was left behind do decompose along with all my childish hopes. When I was younger, this little house was my home. Sat very near to what used to be my parent’s house, you cannot see what pathetic ruins it has become. Just beyond the woods, by a small creek and a large dinosaur shaped boulder, are the remains of my Casita, my little house.

Over the Kitten Puzzle

There is no feeling better than that of knowing you’re about to be free. As an incomplete thought I remember, “…and all I can think of is the shock of teal hair that tugged at my heartstrings.” To feel lost in the maze of insanity and strictly prompted progressions, of medications and misinformation, they all wander the white halls with more than a little care. It’s a prison some welcome, and others despise. Here I sit, poised and at the ready, with only the feeling of overwhelming claustrophobia, finding relief in the knowledge I’ve yet an hour to go. She chats, and I listen. The puzzle before us making its face known, and I smile. To think of what lead to this moment is more than a bit frightening. I’m proud to be here now, and scared to leave this place I hate. Sitting in a basket, perched on a pile of leaves, the kitten smiles at me. I could live in this feeling for a while.

Intellego Intellexi Intellectum

Big words don’t make one story any more profound than that composed of the simplest words. The problem is, as soon as someone has something really important to say, they feel the need to be extra detailed in their explanation, thinking that the stronger the words the clearer the understanding, when in most situations that’s not the case. Just because you know the severity of what it is your trying to say doesn’t mean that people will interpret that through the unnecessarily dense grammar and vocabulary. Even as I write this now, I know I’m doing exactly what I’m scolding others for doing…but I guess, could that mean it’s in a writer’s nature? Are we really so desperate for understanding that the complex thoughts dwelling within us cannot simply be condensed to words a child would comprehend? No. That's just rediculous.